IN THIS ISSUE :
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N! NEWS
RECOMMENDED READINGS
INTERVIEWS
ESSAYS & ARTICLES
MIXTAPE[S] #003
YOUTUBE PLAYLIST
SOLID ALBUMS
LET'S DANCE WITH LIT
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POETRY
Sally Burnette [ @dunebuddy12 ] Samuel Fox [ website ] Lyd Havens [ website / @lizardhavens ] Tim Kahl [ website ] Ellyn Lichvar [ @ellynanna ] Nate Maxson [ @lizard194 ] Nobody aka Willis Earl Beal [ website / @WILLISEARLBEAL8 ] C.T. McGaha [ @ctmcgaha ] Ashley Miranda [ website / @dustwhispers ] Isobel O'Hare [ website / @isobelohare ] Mallory Smart [ @malsmart ] PUBLISHERS THAT WON'T WASTE YOUR TIME
[ oh & check out ENCLAVE's "Where To Submit April + May 2017" for a more comprehensive list of potential homes !! ]
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FEATURES
new homies
PROSE
ARTWORKS
Dean Liao
[ FB (for commissions) ] Ashley Parker Owens [ website / @parkerowens ] Dani Schmidt [ website / instagram ] Alina Stefanescu [ website / @aliner ] Christine Stoddard [ website / @cstoddard ] |
Let's Dance
sweet baby boi roots, 2014 NYC Poetry Festival
N! NEWS : ORIGIN TALES & CHAPBOOK CHATS
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Entropy : "How did Nostrovia! Press start?"
Nostrovia! : "N!’s been around for a minute—since 2011, in Jeremiah’s Junior year of high school w/ the narcissistic publication of a long-buried collection titled 'Nostrovia!'
Our momentum clocked in with mileage. Jeremiah stuck his thumb out in 2013 & took the press with him. Libraries & cafes served wifi, & he bopped from open mic to open mic, busking on street corners, kicking with different poetry + art communities across the country distributing our titles |
turning back further, 2013 NYC Poetry Festival
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This tied into our early ramshackle tendencies. The road doesn’t give a damn for deadlines. The immediate moment ripped clocks from wrists. This rolled thru w/ the launch of Books & Shovels, our traveling bookstore debuting at the 2014 NYC Poetry Festival & touring thru to a Kansas intersection car accident, out front of where Burroughs died, totaling the vehicle to a cocktail of fluids leaking its way to our new home: a Walmart parking lot. Luck came by a couple days later, & an honest mechanic dropped us a new ride cheap, setting us off thru dark Kansas highway lit w/ purple lightening weaving flashes of sight thru desolate fields snagged dark in a blink. We nestled into Denver, murky August sweat clinging clothes to skin. Being lil green horns, we fumbled thru being broke getting broker. A predictable lack of shows & a retreat east chased Jeremiah’s frustration w/ getting B&S rolling strong. However prepared, whether or not whatever you deem success follows, the road always wins
N! didn’t settle into much structure till our Chapbook Contest kicked off in 2015 w/ Christopher Morgan joining up as co-manager. We collectively manage irl + digital responsibilities more fluidly between texts and long phone calls, snubbing out a lil bit of that on-the-road jankyness.
Christopher’s background in publishing & editing + Jeremiah’s background in confused asphalt sunrises & event coordination make for some interesting cocktails. We’re pushing N!‘s growth w/ that weird-word patience, hoping to continue growing as an empowering amp for our communities....
Christopher’s background in publishing & editing + Jeremiah’s background in confused asphalt sunrises & event coordination make for some interesting cocktails. We’re pushing N!‘s growth w/ that weird-word patience, hoping to continue growing as an empowering amp for our communities....
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We started out of a framepack & computer screen tight-roping language, trying to figure out what can’t be said & how to say it. I guess the ramble can be summed up with—narcissism leading to boredom leading to community leading to fulfillment.
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South West skies slung wide with a cracked odometer & nowhere to go
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LINETTE REEMAN : Featured Poet
"Passion is a road-trip you planned the night before."
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Linette Reeman (they/them pronouns) is an Aries from the Jersey Shore, so they're not sure what you mean by "speed limit."
A multiple Pushcart Prize and Bettering American Poetry Prize nominee, they are on the executive board for the Philadelphia Fuze Poetry Slam and attempting to finish their BA in History. In their free time, they occasionally sleep a full eight hours. You can dig their poems “Connotations For Being Buried Alive” & “Enter: A Body” in Fuck Art, Let’s Dance Issue #014. Below is an interview conducted May (2017) exploring a case study on love + their writing practice + caffeine dreams + the slam/poetry scene. |
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Nostrovia! : "What does your writing practice look like?"
Linette Reeman : "Picture this : It’s 11PM on a Thursday night. Next to me sits a half-gallon of Wawa iced tea. There are 8 thousand tabs open on my laptop. Three of them are for the college assignment I’m supposed to be completing for class the next morning. All of the others are various Wikipedia articles on dead and (relatively) insignificant historical figures. Maybe one is just a YouTube loop of “Company” by Tinashe. Despite all this, the poem I am writing is about Being Trans™ and while all of my friends think it’s neat, none of the 11 publications I submit it to think it “fits” in their identity-suite. Wash hands; repeat until I graduate and/or disintegrate."
N!P : "You're involved beyond page, stage, and publishing in a huge network of projects. Can you give us a low-down on what you've been involved with lately?"
LR : "Right now pre-orders for my book 'When We Both Spoke In Alters: A Case Study On Love' (Rising Phoenix Press) are still happening, so that’s probably the most exciting thing I’ve got going on writing-wise currently, and my slam venue, the Philadelphia Fuze, just wrapped up our competition season, so the rest of the organizational board and I are looking forward to the rest of the summer’s features and open mics, and then I’m excited to start putting out feelers for features starting again in the fall.
In the past the Fuze has tried to feature local and national poets, and now that I’m part of the organizing crew, I’ve made it a point to book queer and trans/GNC poets, and I’m really proud of the people we’ve brought out so far. Also starting May 8 torrin a. greathouse and I are doing a mini SoCal tour!... which we’ve lovingly titled 'PWR CPPL,' as a play on the name of the queer band 'PWR BTTM.'"
In the past the Fuze has tried to feature local and national poets, and now that I’m part of the organizing crew, I’ve made it a point to book queer and trans/GNC poets, and I’m really proud of the people we’ve brought out so far. Also starting May 8 torrin a. greathouse and I are doing a mini SoCal tour!... which we’ve lovingly titled 'PWR CPPL,' as a play on the name of the queer band 'PWR BTTM.'"
N!P : Can you give us some insight on your case study?
LR : Love is just an emotion. It is amorphous and inhabits different forms and is defined differently by different situations and intentions. But also, Love shapes what it fills.
This book, while not explicitly stating it, travels through my five-year relationship with my ex-fiance and how trauma lived in too many places of my life for too long, and how I’m attempting to grow into my new self.
This book, while not explicitly stating it, travels through my five-year relationship with my ex-fiance and how trauma lived in too many places of my life for too long, and how I’m attempting to grow into my new self.
N!P : "You’re visibly and vocally trans in scenes that sometimes don't care. How have you gone about carving space for yourself to not only take the stage & be heard, but to feel safe?"
LR : "I’m still working on this, to be honest. I’ll say this though: it’s not up to the trans person to carve a space for themselves in a scene that is transphobic; rather, it is the responsibility of the scene to take spaces that are resistant to trans voices and plunge a (metaphorical) knife into that shit, you know?"
connotatons for being buried alive
I.
the dictionary told the children they needed to wear
these clothes and they’d come back heroes
the dictionary told them they’d come back
II.
world war one was the first war to be fought almost entirely
by volunteers instead of trained soldiers using weapons of
unprecedented technological advancement so a child digs
a trench a child buries a body a child shoots a body a child
buries themselves
III.
there is the assumption that a pair of bodies is made
to move mechanically inside their definitions well
what if i told you it’s possible to hold a person like
a person not like a burial not like something to hide
IV.
the dictionary told us your mouth was a gun and
we wore that connotation like a too-big coat like
these bodies were machinery to begin with and
i don’t want to love so staccato someone mistakes me
for gunfire but the dictionary told us to own these
hands was to own a trench to want a kiss was to
hollow a grave to come back was
to die, just differently
world war one was the first war the dead came
back alive as well and no one knew how to
bury whole bodies no one knew how to comfort
just dermis packaged / machines stuck / in their mechanics
a body on autopilot to exist without context to keep
kissing but feel different
V.
there is the definition of trauma and then there is
how everyone i love is still digging to find the
child they were, once, before the war//////when
the children came back with adult eyes
there was no definition for ‘trauma’ just ‘quiet’
just a cigarette held limp in a mouth until
it was time to sleep but not really sleep
just die again, only differently
so there is a person
with unprecedented skin / technology so advanced
not even they know how it will react against
an enemy or just another person
VI.
in every instance of context it is up to the volunteers to
dig the trenches. i am awake and this is okay. i am awake
and i am here if you need me to be. i am alive and i am
glad you are too. we are both machines and this reaction
isn’t automatic / it’s practiced. it’s being awake at the same
time every night because once i was awake then and you
needed me. i mistook my own mouth for grave and also
dug me out. mis-heard the definition of ‘machine’ and
thought it meant only ‘weapon’ but look at all i’ve geared
with just my hands
the dictionary told the children they needed to wear
these clothes and they’d come back heroes
the dictionary told them they’d come back
II.
world war one was the first war to be fought almost entirely
by volunteers instead of trained soldiers using weapons of
unprecedented technological advancement so a child digs
a trench a child buries a body a child shoots a body a child
buries themselves
III.
there is the assumption that a pair of bodies is made
to move mechanically inside their definitions well
what if i told you it’s possible to hold a person like
a person not like a burial not like something to hide
IV.
the dictionary told us your mouth was a gun and
we wore that connotation like a too-big coat like
these bodies were machinery to begin with and
i don’t want to love so staccato someone mistakes me
for gunfire but the dictionary told us to own these
hands was to own a trench to want a kiss was to
hollow a grave to come back was
to die, just differently
world war one was the first war the dead came
back alive as well and no one knew how to
bury whole bodies no one knew how to comfort
just dermis packaged / machines stuck / in their mechanics
a body on autopilot to exist without context to keep
kissing but feel different
V.
there is the definition of trauma and then there is
how everyone i love is still digging to find the
child they were, once, before the war//////when
the children came back with adult eyes
there was no definition for ‘trauma’ just ‘quiet’
just a cigarette held limp in a mouth until
it was time to sleep but not really sleep
just die again, only differently
so there is a person
with unprecedented skin / technology so advanced
not even they know how it will react against
an enemy or just another person
VI.
in every instance of context it is up to the volunteers to
dig the trenches. i am awake and this is okay. i am awake
and i am here if you need me to be. i am alive and i am
glad you are too. we are both machines and this reaction
isn’t automatic / it’s practiced. it’s being awake at the same
time every night because once i was awake then and you
needed me. i mistook my own mouth for grave and also
dug me out. mis-heard the definition of ‘machine’ and
thought it meant only ‘weapon’ but look at all i’ve geared
with just my hands
eNTER: a boDY
[ after Alain Ginsberg ]
body enters the world girl-shaped
maybe dancer-leaning
girl-body enters the dance class askew
back not popsicle-stick snapped
knees pop and everyone hears how
the candle blows itself out
girl enters another girl’s body
two half-girls dissociate into
each others’ mouths until
everyone sees just one person
dance enters the not-girl body
and leaves limping
car accident enters the body and
body has to be dragged out of the car
my father enters the emergency room
and picks glass out of my hair
my mother follows me into the
courtroom and tells me to stop
exaggerating my limp
body tries to enter a mirror but
breaks itself and comes out bloody and
everyone pretends this is normal
my mother’s child enters the front seat
of their father’s car and grips
the wheel hard enough to imagine
their hand-bones shattering
someone enters my body and maybe
imagines a girl where instead there
is an accident
body is baptised in two languages
and i still come out as a faggot
body limps into the courthouse bathroom
and there are so many mirrors body
remembers a dance studio it stood in once
my mother asks me why i stopped dancing
and my body answers in broken language
body tries to dance with someone but
they just want to enter it
body lets someone enter them and
all the mirrors shatter
body enters their own mouth and
swallows the flame to stop the flicker
body candles until morning
body assumes it is not useful unless
no one can see it
body exits a person’s car and
limps despite wanting to dance
body expects it will exit the world
in more pieces than it entered
girl enters the world with a body
exits with a mouthful of glass
girl presses their body to a mirror
to practice being with someone else
girl peels body off bloody
girl trails their body behind them
body follows itself out of the mirror
body dances until everything burns
maybe dancer-leaning
girl-body enters the dance class askew
back not popsicle-stick snapped
knees pop and everyone hears how
the candle blows itself out
girl enters another girl’s body
two half-girls dissociate into
each others’ mouths until
everyone sees just one person
dance enters the not-girl body
and leaves limping
car accident enters the body and
body has to be dragged out of the car
my father enters the emergency room
and picks glass out of my hair
my mother follows me into the
courtroom and tells me to stop
exaggerating my limp
body tries to enter a mirror but
breaks itself and comes out bloody and
everyone pretends this is normal
my mother’s child enters the front seat
of their father’s car and grips
the wheel hard enough to imagine
their hand-bones shattering
someone enters my body and maybe
imagines a girl where instead there
is an accident
body is baptised in two languages
and i still come out as a faggot
body limps into the courthouse bathroom
and there are so many mirrors body
remembers a dance studio it stood in once
my mother asks me why i stopped dancing
and my body answers in broken language
body tries to dance with someone but
they just want to enter it
body lets someone enter them and
all the mirrors shatter
body enters their own mouth and
swallows the flame to stop the flicker
body candles until morning
body assumes it is not useful unless
no one can see it
body exits a person’s car and
limps despite wanting to dance
body expects it will exit the world
in more pieces than it entered
girl enters the world with a body
exits with a mouthful of glass
girl presses their body to a mirror
to practice being with someone else
girl peels body off bloody
girl trails their body behind them
body follows itself out of the mirror
body dances until everything burns
ASHLEY PARKER OWENS : TWO Dreams
"I'm a sky watcher. I'm looking for aliens, but what I get from the experience of searching the sky is a rabid awe and excitement of something new, visitors from another realm. While the images I present are not meant to be aliens, I hope to capture the passion and seeking of the unknown. I have written about alien contact in poetry, and now I am attempting to create a non-word experience of the same. While the two might not match as far as content and storytelling, the itch inside me is satisfied in both cases. The images are digital collages created from parts of public domain images and altered in an image painting software program."
Ashley Parker Owens is a writer, poet, and artist living in Richmond, Kentucky, USA. She has two MFAs, one in visual arts (Rutgers), and one in creative writing (EKU). Reach her at parker.owens [at] gmail [dot] com. Other images can be seen at an online portfolio
"Dream One"
"Dream Two"
TWO POEMS : LYD HAVENS
"To me, passion is when you come home and are able to go to bed feeling totally at ease. You're not too warm or too cold body temperature-wise; all your muscles are relaxed. All because you're doing what you love because you love it."
Lyd Havens is a poet, editor, and teaching artist currently living in Boise, ID. Her first full length collection, "Survive Like the Water," was published by Rising Phoenix Press in February 2017.
Bi-
the names of all the girls i have ever loved
were wheat fields. endless, a color i almost
don’t have a word for, always far away
even when they were right in front of me.
they were soft. they were always the ones
to teach me about resourcefulness and self-harvest.
even now, we still talk. there is still wind
in the summer. we still love each other.
how could we not?
*
*
i love a boy today, and his name is human flight.
impossible. maybe because i didn’t think
i would ever love a boy like this. nineteen years old
and thinking about how to use my body
for something other than bitter survival.
but i do think i love this boy. this porch-light,
hotel air conditioning-sweet boy. i’m afraid
to find out if he loves me back, but i’m not afraid
to tell my mother his name. somewhere,
someone renames their love Icarus, or
Rose Dawson, or decides to still call it love.
they are promising they will get it right this time.
were wheat fields. endless, a color i almost
don’t have a word for, always far away
even when they were right in front of me.
they were soft. they were always the ones
to teach me about resourcefulness and self-harvest.
even now, we still talk. there is still wind
in the summer. we still love each other.
how could we not?
*
*
i love a boy today, and his name is human flight.
impossible. maybe because i didn’t think
i would ever love a boy like this. nineteen years old
and thinking about how to use my body
for something other than bitter survival.
but i do think i love this boy. this porch-light,
hotel air conditioning-sweet boy. i’m afraid
to find out if he loves me back, but i’m not afraid
to tell my mother his name. somewhere,
someone renames their love Icarus, or
Rose Dawson, or decides to still call it love.
they are promising they will get it right this time.
processing trauma while making a playlist on Spotify
let me sing the word girl with the same passion
Art Garfunkel has when he plays
“For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her”. teach me
how to be the baby blue bass in the punk singer’s
gorgeously vengeful hands.
& when the man talks about what he did to me
to other men at some bar in Eastern Washington,
do not give him the benefit of the doubt,
or the slow medicine of piano chords
to comfort him & his choices.
Fiona Apple once asked who is stronger:
the man who finds it in him to assault the child,
or the child who heals from the assault,
& i need to know if she ever learned the answer.
Carrie Brownstein sings that anger makes her
a modern girl, but i know that it only makes me afraid.
my family took pride in raising a level-headed child.
he always praised me for being so obedient,
eager to please him even when my hands were shaking.
i do not have any sort of tempo i can rely on
when i’m not sure i will make it back home
without fighting a strange man for the right
to my own personhood. i have had a song
stuck in my head ever since he finished with me,
and it sounds like every string on a mandolin
curling into a fetal position. or a trumpet
trying to sputter its way through an anxiety attack.
or Jeff Buckley putting his guitar away
right before going to sleep, or maybe right before
going for a swim in the Mississippi River.
every song has to end eventually, but when
this one finishes, what will be the final note?
will it end while my eyes are open or shut?
will it end when i get married? when i have
my first child? when i am lying
in a hospital bed, unsure of whether or not
i was ever able to reclaim my body
after a grown man tried to kill
the music inside me before it even really began?
Art Garfunkel has when he plays
“For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her”. teach me
how to be the baby blue bass in the punk singer’s
gorgeously vengeful hands.
& when the man talks about what he did to me
to other men at some bar in Eastern Washington,
do not give him the benefit of the doubt,
or the slow medicine of piano chords
to comfort him & his choices.
Fiona Apple once asked who is stronger:
the man who finds it in him to assault the child,
or the child who heals from the assault,
& i need to know if she ever learned the answer.
Carrie Brownstein sings that anger makes her
a modern girl, but i know that it only makes me afraid.
my family took pride in raising a level-headed child.
he always praised me for being so obedient,
eager to please him even when my hands were shaking.
i do not have any sort of tempo i can rely on
when i’m not sure i will make it back home
without fighting a strange man for the right
to my own personhood. i have had a song
stuck in my head ever since he finished with me,
and it sounds like every string on a mandolin
curling into a fetal position. or a trumpet
trying to sputter its way through an anxiety attack.
or Jeff Buckley putting his guitar away
right before going to sleep, or maybe right before
going for a swim in the Mississippi River.
every song has to end eventually, but when
this one finishes, what will be the final note?
will it end while my eyes are open or shut?
will it end when i get married? when i have
my first child? when i am lying
in a hospital bed, unsure of whether or not
i was ever able to reclaim my body
after a grown man tried to kill
the music inside me before it even really began?
CARLIE SHERRY : "GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS"
"Passion is doing what you love regardless of what they fucking think of you."
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Carlie Sherry graduated with her MFA in Painting at Syracuse University in 2015. Carlie actively participates in exhibitions both regionally and nationally. She is an Adjunct Professor at Pratt Munson Williams and Proctor Arts Institute and Utica College. Currently, Carlie lives in Clinton, NY where she runs her studio practice.
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"My Prim Ruffles on My Proper Ruffles"
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Nostrovia! : "What does your artistic practice look like?"
Carlie Sherry : "I am currently renting a small studio space in town, which is nice and private. It is in this space where I tend to make some form of self-portraiture, usually delving into my identity. Often times going back and forth between painting and drawing, I explore religious identity, family histories, sexuality, or more recently aspects of womanhood."
N! : "How do you use your practice & art to dig thru the layers toward your more authentic self?"
CS : "I used to hide behind a sort of mask, a mask that I would put on to please others in society, which felt disingenuous to myself. So I use my art practice to be brave. I have learned to expose my vulnerabilities. Exposing those vulnerabilities is ultimately freeing because in doing so, I realize that others share similar experiences.
I connect with others without the mask, and stand up for what I believe in. I do not have to hide behind a façade. That fresh sense of honesty in myself and in work becomes addicting the more I do it."
I connect with others without the mask, and stand up for what I believe in. I do not have to hide behind a façade. That fresh sense of honesty in myself and in work becomes addicting the more I do it."
"Great Grandmother's Finest Jewels"
N! : What's your relationship with your body & how does this affect your work?
CS : "Tensions that exist between my religious upbringing and my sexuality have flooded my artwork in the past couple of years. Growing up in the Catholic Church was confusing on how to feel about my body, without guilt being attached to it, especially being a woman. I wanted to make a series of artwork that celebrated the woman’s body, instead of stifling it.
In my series “Garden of Earthly Delights” I celebrate sexuality, the body, and bodily functions. I place lush fruits around my body, sometimes licking, kissing the fruit. Other times the fruits appear layered suggestively over my body parts. Even though I am working with self-portraiture and celebrating parts of my own body, I hope that my series can make other women feel empowered by their own bodies as well. I should say that for this series I was greatly inspired by, Hieronymus Bosch’s painting “Garden of Earthly Delights,” where people are also indulging in earthly pleasures."
In my series “Garden of Earthly Delights” I celebrate sexuality, the body, and bodily functions. I place lush fruits around my body, sometimes licking, kissing the fruit. Other times the fruits appear layered suggestively over my body parts. Even though I am working with self-portraiture and celebrating parts of my own body, I hope that my series can make other women feel empowered by their own bodies as well. I should say that for this series I was greatly inspired by, Hieronymus Bosch’s painting “Garden of Earthly Delights,” where people are also indulging in earthly pleasures."
"DELIGHTS"
SAMUEL FOX : ONE POEM / SOUNDSCAPE
"Passion is a dirty thumbnail peeling into the ripe flesh of a plum: it is tainted with human and is sometimes a process of revealing layers of something that would grow anyway. Passion is the painter at rest, daydreaming of days to come. Passion is the new moon but the expectation that in two weeks it will be luminous once again. Passion should come at no price: it should be free."
Samuel J. Fox is a bisexual poet living in BFE, North Carolina. He will blur your social norms/he will slur your binaries into nonsense. He has lyric essays appearing in Muse/A Journal, (b)OINK, and The Avenue; he has poems appearing in (b)OINK, Luna Luna Magazine, and Maudlin House. He is also a guitarist/vocalist with Fox & the Vineyards. You can find him on Twitter / Facebook.
THE KID
I was born:
made of gunpowder and exit wounds.
Didn’t know my daddy much
save what he left behind:
knuckle-marks stained on walls
day old cologne still stuck in halls
beard trimmings clogged in his sink
footprints fading down a sidewalk in the snow
and an old shirt I swore I’d never grow into.
Doctor said momma drowned in her sleep,
called it tuberculosis. I left the next day;
stumbled away from that rotten apple
that was only good for holding worms anymore.
I headed west past the frontier country
into my own manifest destiny, seeking God.
But God don’t say much these days,
at least not to boys like me.
The devil’s greatest stunt isn’t that he tricks you
into thinking he don’t exist: it’s that he does
and he’ll shake your hand firm like a friend.
I learned that your enemies stab you
in the back like cowards, but that your friends
look you in the eye as they stab you in the heart.
I still got a pitch fork in my spine
where I should have grown a living from.
I started thieving, robbing, laid down with women
not old enough to know weddings
but not young enough to be stupid.
I joined a militia: I learned
to shoot a pistol in the dark and hit the cherry of a cigarette
from thirty yards. My finger was brave
but I don’t ever think I learned what a man is.
The soldiers . . . they called me a kid. Still eighteen,
they didn’t know I’d be a legend at twenty-one.
I showed them. Sometimes you got to switch opinions
even if that means you betray a man: at least
I had the decency to look him in the eyes when I done it.
I became the youngest outlaw there ever was.
People chased me down, but I left them laying in red dust;
that is, until Sherriff Garrett tracked me down
snuck around the back of my hideout. I asked Bucky
who is it? Turns out God had been looking for me
since my mother died. He filled me with lead.
The hell was too full inside me: like a saguaro
that don’t know how to keep in its water.
There was this one time . . .
I stood before the prison guard who begged for life
as I pressed my barrel to his nose.
He asked me my name: said he would hold me
accountable for my actions before God.
He asked me what my father done named me.
I said that my name was William and it means
desire or conqueror: but that I didn’t have a father
and I didn’t want one either. How can a boy
know how to be a man if a man never teaches him
how to shed the rattlesnake skin of his youth?
Damnation is the easy part. It happens before you die.
So when that Sherriff stood over me
to watch me let all the fire out to burn the wretched earth
I wanted to thank him. Hell is all I ever known:
and I assure you, it’s much cooler under the ground.
I never did wear that shirt, not at least til my funeral
where I was buried covered with gunpowder and exit wounds
made of gunpowder and exit wounds.
Didn’t know my daddy much
save what he left behind:
knuckle-marks stained on walls
day old cologne still stuck in halls
beard trimmings clogged in his sink
footprints fading down a sidewalk in the snow
and an old shirt I swore I’d never grow into.
Doctor said momma drowned in her sleep,
called it tuberculosis. I left the next day;
stumbled away from that rotten apple
that was only good for holding worms anymore.
I headed west past the frontier country
into my own manifest destiny, seeking God.
But God don’t say much these days,
at least not to boys like me.
The devil’s greatest stunt isn’t that he tricks you
into thinking he don’t exist: it’s that he does
and he’ll shake your hand firm like a friend.
I learned that your enemies stab you
in the back like cowards, but that your friends
look you in the eye as they stab you in the heart.
I still got a pitch fork in my spine
where I should have grown a living from.
I started thieving, robbing, laid down with women
not old enough to know weddings
but not young enough to be stupid.
I joined a militia: I learned
to shoot a pistol in the dark and hit the cherry of a cigarette
from thirty yards. My finger was brave
but I don’t ever think I learned what a man is.
The soldiers . . . they called me a kid. Still eighteen,
they didn’t know I’d be a legend at twenty-one.
I showed them. Sometimes you got to switch opinions
even if that means you betray a man: at least
I had the decency to look him in the eyes when I done it.
I became the youngest outlaw there ever was.
People chased me down, but I left them laying in red dust;
that is, until Sherriff Garrett tracked me down
snuck around the back of my hideout. I asked Bucky
who is it? Turns out God had been looking for me
since my mother died. He filled me with lead.
The hell was too full inside me: like a saguaro
that don’t know how to keep in its water.
There was this one time . . .
I stood before the prison guard who begged for life
as I pressed my barrel to his nose.
He asked me my name: said he would hold me
accountable for my actions before God.
He asked me what my father done named me.
I said that my name was William and it means
desire or conqueror: but that I didn’t have a father
and I didn’t want one either. How can a boy
know how to be a man if a man never teaches him
how to shed the rattlesnake skin of his youth?
Damnation is the easy part. It happens before you die.
So when that Sherriff stood over me
to watch me let all the fire out to burn the wretched earth
I wanted to thank him. Hell is all I ever known:
and I assure you, it’s much cooler under the ground.
I never did wear that shirt, not at least til my funeral
where I was buried covered with gunpowder and exit wounds
"The Kid" was recorded as a collaboration with several artists under the name Fox and the Vineyards, namely Matt Graham from Raleigh, NC who plays guitar on this track as well as having produced it for distribution. Samuel J Fox is the author and vocalist.
THE LITTLE LORD OF VERMIN
I.
Scabs and fleas. The wildling dreams
of magic that can turn him into a fox.
He plays with rodents behind the house
that sits on a small hill. An angel
guards a fountain empty of robins.
In the house is a drunkard and man
who cannot believe in magic or love.
That is how most myths begin:
whether in magic or in love. The man
sleeps most days, works most nights.
His boy, a darkling-eyed dreamer,
names all the creatures in the grove.
Twin rabbits: spit and spackle.
A murder of ravens: night-shed,
claw-spark, thresher. The family
of deer: purity and her doe
little mercy. Then there is the fox:
the boy calls the vixen his mother’s name.
Scabs and fleas. The wildling dreams
of magic that can turn him into a fox.
He plays with rodents behind the house
that sits on a small hill. An angel
guards a fountain empty of robins.
In the house is a drunkard and man
who cannot believe in magic or love.
That is how most myths begin:
whether in magic or in love. The man
sleeps most days, works most nights.
His boy, a darkling-eyed dreamer,
names all the creatures in the grove.
Twin rabbits: spit and spackle.
A murder of ravens: night-shed,
claw-spark, thresher. The family
of deer: purity and her doe
little mercy. Then there is the fox:
the boy calls the vixen his mother’s name.
II.
The trees lean in to gossip about how
the boy is growing. He has not yet
learned to ignore the world and see it
as the circus he will have to enter.
He plays in the riverbed searching
for emeralds. He finds them engraved
in the minnows’ shallow armor.
The trees lean in to gossip about how
the boy is growing. He has not yet
learned to ignore the world and see it
as the circus he will have to enter.
He plays in the riverbed searching
for emeralds. He finds them engraved
in the minnows’ shallow armor.
III.
The drunk man loses everything one day;
at least, everything he would care to lose.
His job; money to keep liquor and the lights
running; he breaks the television, the same
he tuned into God every evening, falling
into an exodus of dreams while the televangelist
screams. He even loses his shadow:
it does not wish to follow him anymore.
He returns home to find the boy asleep,
a small wren singing in his throat.
The drunk man loses everything one day;
at least, everything he would care to lose.
His job; money to keep liquor and the lights
running; he breaks the television, the same
he tuned into God every evening, falling
into an exodus of dreams while the televangelist
screams. He even loses his shadow:
it does not wish to follow him anymore.
He returns home to find the boy asleep,
a small wren singing in his throat.
IV.
Have you figured out yet where this is going?
Have you reconsidered reading? There is no
such thing as happy endings. Everyone likes
to be lied to – pretend such things, like magic,
like miracles, exist – but I don’t prefer to lie.
I can believe in miracles the same way I can
believe in death: only when it occurs.
Have you figured out yet where this is going?
Have you reconsidered reading? There is no
such thing as happy endings. Everyone likes
to be lied to – pretend such things, like magic,
like miracles, exist – but I don’t prefer to lie.
I can believe in miracles the same way I can
believe in death: only when it occurs.
V.
The father begins drinking during the day.
The boy begins asking birds how to fly.
The boy realizes his father has a badger lodged
in his gut. The father realizes his boy
has no grip on reality. The father gets angry
and hits the boy in his steeple white mouth.
The boy runs out of the house, crimson
and crying. The boy wishes his father was dead:
just like how he has no mother because of death.
The birds wish they could teach him to flee.
The father begins drinking during the day.
The boy begins asking birds how to fly.
The boy realizes his father has a badger lodged
in his gut. The father realizes his boy
has no grip on reality. The father gets angry
and hits the boy in his steeple white mouth.
The boy runs out of the house, crimson
and crying. The boy wishes his father was dead:
just like how he has no mother because of death.
The birds wish they could teach him to flee.
VI.
A vixen will take in a cub from any liter
because she, though fierce, is not cruel.
She washes the boys knuckles chapped
from his father’s blows. She shines them
like they were shields. The boy asks
her name. When she tells him, he hears
the ghost of a voice, the echo of his mother.
A vixen will take in a cub from any liter
because she, though fierce, is not cruel.
She washes the boys knuckles chapped
from his father’s blows. She shines them
like they were shields. The boy asks
her name. When she tells him, he hears
the ghost of a voice, the echo of his mother.
VII.
Would you believe me if I told you
that birds learn to fly the same way we
learn to speak? We watch, we listen,
we learn, we fail, and then we, one day
while muttering into the future, discover
how our lips move over our own breath.
Would you believe me if I told you
that birds learn to fly the same way we
learn to speak? We watch, we listen,
we learn, we fail, and then we, one day
while muttering into the future, discover
how our lips move over our own breath.
VIII.
The father grows old. He calls his son
a rat. One day the father decides to show
his son that pain is the only thing that can
make a man become real. He takes a cigarette
and burns a hole in his son’s wrist.
The son doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream.
He doesn’t blink; and the father falls asleep
to the season and sounds of gnashing teeth.
The father grows old. He calls his son
a rat. One day the father decides to show
his son that pain is the only thing that can
make a man become real. He takes a cigarette
and burns a hole in his son’s wrist.
The son doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream.
He doesn’t blink; and the father falls asleep
to the season and sounds of gnashing teeth.
IX.
The father dies several years later. He dies
of a lack of dreams and magic (or by
falling into the liquor cabinet and drowning).
The boy is old enough by then to leave.
The boy takes the mother vixen’s body,
the one he found curled under their tree
with an exit wound in her heart. He cuts
off her paw. He preserves it. He wears it
like a new heart. He wears it so the world
can’t take his magic without seeing it first.
The father dies several years later. He dies
of a lack of dreams and magic (or by
falling into the liquor cabinet and drowning).
The boy is old enough by then to leave.
The boy takes the mother vixen’s body,
the one he found curled under their tree
with an exit wound in her heart. He cuts
off her paw. He preserves it. He wears it
like a new heart. He wears it so the world
can’t take his magic without seeing it first.
X.
What if I told you I lied about everything?
What if I told you there was no father?
No empty space where shadow should be?
No liquor cabinet, no grove, no lack of dreams?
However, there was a boy. The boy was me.
What if I told you I lied about everything?
What if I told you there was no father?
No empty space where shadow should be?
No liquor cabinet, no grove, no lack of dreams?
However, there was a boy. The boy was me.
SALLY BURNETTE : FOUR FOUND POEMS
"Well, first of all, passion is a tiny red bird that flits around your liver and feeds off the black sludge in your lungs."
sally burnette is alive in boston. recent work has appeared in The Fem and Reality Beach, and is forthcoming in Winter Tangerine, BOAAT, and the wall of some creepy bathroom stall. complain about the poems @dunebuggy12
The Holy Land Experience
came to get our grandmother out of the house
why support harry potter & cruella deville?
this place has a great anointing over it
the moment you get to the gates you are blessed!
the inside is filled with beautiful mirrors
& there are lots of angels & peacocks everywhere
way worth more than the $50 per adult charged
don’t you dare listen to negative reviewers
they forget that it's not just about attraction
it’s about christ & you’re there to appreciate
the things you can't see nowadays
i don't mean this in a disrespectful way but
if you are a serious christian or seeking the lord
you will connect with the holy spirit
you will find jesus here
you will also find little snack shacks
& a restaurant where you can sit outside
the menu is from chick fil a
my wife & i were truly blessed to feel god
speaking to us through the series of plays
i weeped & it was life-changing
although i liked it more when the crucifixion took place outside
instead of on stage cause it looked more authentic
& my only other gripe is that they didn’t serve beer
i will be back again & i’ll bring more people
why support harry potter & cruella deville?
this place has a great anointing over it
the moment you get to the gates you are blessed!
the inside is filled with beautiful mirrors
& there are lots of angels & peacocks everywhere
way worth more than the $50 per adult charged
don’t you dare listen to negative reviewers
they forget that it's not just about attraction
it’s about christ & you’re there to appreciate
the things you can't see nowadays
i don't mean this in a disrespectful way but
if you are a serious christian or seeking the lord
you will connect with the holy spirit
you will find jesus here
you will also find little snack shacks
& a restaurant where you can sit outside
the menu is from chick fil a
my wife & i were truly blessed to feel god
speaking to us through the series of plays
i weeped & it was life-changing
although i liked it more when the crucifixion took place outside
instead of on stage cause it looked more authentic
& my only other gripe is that they didn’t serve beer
i will be back again & i’ll bring more people
source material : Google reviews of The Holy Land Experience
Tribulation
an elegy for southern queers
we are living
in
abomination
in the “holy place”
Satan
worshipped
himself
a commentary
on abomination or,
where it ought not
*
church — a lesson
passages parallel direct us carefully
understand how God is
forewarn the true believers
the heathen come
defiled; they have laid on heaps
in the house called
Son of man
my sanctuary?
*
we read of a prophecy
Satan magnified the prince
daily sacrifice
cast down
arms pollute the sanctuary
take away
make desolate
*
sometime in the future
all these things?
verily
there shall not be left here
one stone upon another
that shall not be
thrown
in
abomination
in the “holy place”
Satan
worshipped
himself
a commentary
on abomination or,
where it ought not
*
church — a lesson
passages parallel direct us carefully
understand how God is
forewarn the true believers
the heathen come
defiled; they have laid on heaps
in the house called
Son of man
my sanctuary?
*
we read of a prophecy
Satan magnified the prince
daily sacrifice
cast down
arms pollute the sanctuary
take away
make desolate
*
sometime in the future
all these things?
verily
there shall not be left here
one stone upon another
that shall not be
thrown
erasure : pamphlet, "COME OUT OF HER, MY PEOPLE"
Free Massage-lADIES ONLY
help me use my table i'm giving free sensual body rubs
to ladies only i’m a man devoted to a mission yet i am human:
54 y/o white no stds long hair one tattoo on left arm
let me be real i use out of loneliness but if ur clean i’m clean
i am human & enjoy the companionship of a woman
i have soothing hands that’ll make u feel good so don’t be shy
be brave if u party i party send a pic so i know ur real
i’m easygoing & can carry a conversation with ease
& my hands r magical i guarantee u will like it don’t worry
i offer this wearing a thong boxers robe or nude ur choice
i’m well-mannered & truly give women honor & the respect they deserve
just lay back & enjoy many consider me the best let me spoil u
i'll remain clothed or get naked depending on ur preference
this is all about u ur pure indulgence in sensual relaxation
lay back enjoy let me take care of u it’s NOT about sex although
digging my elbows into ur muscles til it feels like u were beat up
may trigger intensely erotic sensations but again it's all up to u
me: fit attractive compassionate aching crybaby hard upbringing
u: sexy open-minded lady of any race or age that is legal
help me help u free massage ladies only
to ladies only i’m a man devoted to a mission yet i am human:
54 y/o white no stds long hair one tattoo on left arm
let me be real i use out of loneliness but if ur clean i’m clean
i am human & enjoy the companionship of a woman
i have soothing hands that’ll make u feel good so don’t be shy
be brave if u party i party send a pic so i know ur real
i’m easygoing & can carry a conversation with ease
& my hands r magical i guarantee u will like it don’t worry
i offer this wearing a thong boxers robe or nude ur choice
i’m well-mannered & truly give women honor & the respect they deserve
just lay back & enjoy many consider me the best let me spoil u
i'll remain clothed or get naked depending on ur preference
this is all about u ur pure indulgence in sensual relaxation
lay back enjoy let me take care of u it’s NOT about sex although
digging my elbows into ur muscles til it feels like u were beat up
may trigger intensely erotic sensations but again it's all up to u
me: fit attractive compassionate aching crybaby hard upbringing
u: sexy open-minded lady of any race or age that is legal
help me help u free massage ladies only
source material : craigslist→tampa bay→pinellas county→personals→men seeking women
someone at the home depot likes u ;)
when u smiled at me i felt like i was better than christmas
we saw each other thursday at about 5 i have red hair
& a chin-strap beard ik this post won’t make a difference
but i want it to we passed each other in an aisle
u came in thursday looking for a dryer
i hope u read this but i expect nothing in return
i want u to know i was the guy u passed by
i just want u to know i saw u in the store
if u see this know i’m not looking to get attached
there's so much about me that's good & bad
& i just want u to know all of it i should ask:
do u feel safe now? lol
there was something about u ur shy face
turned up while u stood in line to check out i’d already
finished it's sad it has to be this way for now but it’s safer
deep down i know u wanted me
too when u were standing in the parking lot & i already
know that later it won’t make a difference
if u say u didn’t bc deep down i know u want me
when u smiled at me it felt so good
we saw each other thursday at about 5 i have red hair
& a chin-strap beard ik this post won’t make a difference
but i want it to we passed each other in an aisle
u came in thursday looking for a dryer
i hope u read this but i expect nothing in return
i want u to know i was the guy u passed by
i just want u to know i saw u in the store
if u see this know i’m not looking to get attached
there's so much about me that's good & bad
& i just want u to know all of it i should ask:
do u feel safe now? lol
there was something about u ur shy face
turned up while u stood in line to check out i’d already
finished it's sad it has to be this way for now but it’s safer
deep down i know u wanted me
too when u were standing in the parking lot & i already
know that later it won’t make a difference
if u say u didn’t bc deep down i know u want me
when u smiled at me it felt so good
source material : craigslist→Boston→all Boston→personals→missed connections
DEAN LIAO : FOUR PIECES
"Passion is not gluten free, but she might be vegan.
Notoriously flaky, she rarely gives notice of departure yet—somehow—always manages to make a grand entrance.
Belle of the ball with no attendees, she often drinks alone in the center of the room.
Waiting for her partner, she laughs without smile."
Notoriously flaky, she rarely gives notice of departure yet—somehow—always manages to make a grand entrance.
Belle of the ball with no attendees, she often drinks alone in the center of the room.
Waiting for her partner, she laughs without smile."
Dean Liao is a twenty-something guy in a thirty-year-old’s mind with a degree he doesn't use from a school he couldn't afford (U-WouldHateIt, Class of 2014). He lives at the corner of delusion and ego in Harlem, NY, creating art (he accepts commissions on Facebook) and writing fiction.
Nobody aka willis earl beal : ONE POEM
Supposedly born on the south side of Chicago, Nobody aka Willis Earl Beal is new to Tucson & often found busking 4th Ave. His true origin is currently unknown.
Katowice, Poland
We arrived late at night and were promptly received by a man from the OFF-festival.
We were met by a group of people with whom we would share a ride to the hotel.
We conversed enthusiastically about our travels during the brief ride to the hotel.
By the time we arrived, I felt hungry.
After eating and showering, I came out to discover my girlfriend asleep.
It had been a long, drawn out day of Airport travel, so I did not attempt to wake her.
I sat at the table with a glass of red wine and a glass of water staring blankly out at the night sky.
I could hear cars passing and the soft laughter of other residents down below.
I was drained, but sleep was not what I wanted.
Something spoke to me.
Here is what it said:
"It is important to die regularly.
This is called sleep.
The truth is wild beyond man's
control.
Truth will always eclipse untruth,
yet the two are one.
To sleep is to accept truth;
which commands the body to rest
due to mans' limitations
in the tangible realm.
If one has difficulty sleeping,
then one has an aversion
to truth; which is rebellious
and possibly foolish
yet understandable.
Untruth is illusory but manifests
itself in the tangible realm
through the portal of the mind
causing behavior that generates
external conflict.
Dreams and Nightmares are mostly
comprised of cognitive waste
but occasionally yield clues
to the mystery of ones' conscious
existence.
If one is to decipher such clues
accurately and then utilize such
information constructively,
then the brain must be clear
of ambition upon initial entry
into sleep.
Clarity is realized in the dawn
and achieved
through total surrender."
We were met by a group of people with whom we would share a ride to the hotel.
We conversed enthusiastically about our travels during the brief ride to the hotel.
By the time we arrived, I felt hungry.
After eating and showering, I came out to discover my girlfriend asleep.
It had been a long, drawn out day of Airport travel, so I did not attempt to wake her.
I sat at the table with a glass of red wine and a glass of water staring blankly out at the night sky.
I could hear cars passing and the soft laughter of other residents down below.
I was drained, but sleep was not what I wanted.
Something spoke to me.
Here is what it said:
"It is important to die regularly.
This is called sleep.
The truth is wild beyond man's
control.
Truth will always eclipse untruth,
yet the two are one.
To sleep is to accept truth;
which commands the body to rest
due to mans' limitations
in the tangible realm.
If one has difficulty sleeping,
then one has an aversion
to truth; which is rebellious
and possibly foolish
yet understandable.
Untruth is illusory but manifests
itself in the tangible realm
through the portal of the mind
causing behavior that generates
external conflict.
Dreams and Nightmares are mostly
comprised of cognitive waste
but occasionally yield clues
to the mystery of ones' conscious
existence.
If one is to decipher such clues
accurately and then utilize such
information constructively,
then the brain must be clear
of ambition upon initial entry
into sleep.
Clarity is realized in the dawn
and achieved
through total surrender."
ISOBEL O'HARE : TWO POEMS
"Passion is the experience of being consumed by something. It is not always pleasant."
Isobel O'Hare is a queer nomadic poet who currently lives in Taos, New Mexico. She is the author of the chapbooks "Wild Materials" (Zoo Cake Press, 2015) and "The Garden Inside Her" (Ladybox Books, 2016). You can find her at @isobelohare.
Being Ready
My dead child is genderless, like me. You paced outside the bathroom door
saying something about not being ready, while I peed onto a stick and tuned
you out. No one is ever ready, I think. We are not batteries. And what is pregnancy
to me but being consumed by the dreams of some other machine?
I've never read a horoscope that didn't claim my partner and I were uniquely suited
for one another, equipped to overcome the challenges of being a human being in love
with another human being. Even the slip of paper spat out by a boardwalk fortune-teller
said this was so, and I held on to that paper for a year.
After we split you had children with another woman, told me you had a feeling
when you met her, that she was the one. The one to have children with. That it was
a feeling you had never felt with me. I understand. It is difficult to want a child with someone
whose body makes them nauseous, let alone the thought of another body growing within it.
There is a photograph of us seated on a bench by the sea. I have my head in my hands
and you are looking up at the camera, beaming with amusement. In another photo
we are waiting for the 51B bus to Clondalkin, seated on the pavement beside the Liffey.
My forehead is planted against my knee and you are kissing my hair.
You tried to get me to take Tai Chi with you, but it was too peaceful. I needed to kick
something with all my strength, to feel that I was beating my organs’ proxy.
Fourteen years later I perform the movements. I am clumsy, but watching the teacher
is traveling back in time to every park we ever went to together. Me reading a book
on the grass, you flowing through the postures. Being young is being not ready.
Is wanting in theory but shrinking from the flesh of it.
saying something about not being ready, while I peed onto a stick and tuned
you out. No one is ever ready, I think. We are not batteries. And what is pregnancy
to me but being consumed by the dreams of some other machine?
I've never read a horoscope that didn't claim my partner and I were uniquely suited
for one another, equipped to overcome the challenges of being a human being in love
with another human being. Even the slip of paper spat out by a boardwalk fortune-teller
said this was so, and I held on to that paper for a year.
After we split you had children with another woman, told me you had a feeling
when you met her, that she was the one. The one to have children with. That it was
a feeling you had never felt with me. I understand. It is difficult to want a child with someone
whose body makes them nauseous, let alone the thought of another body growing within it.
There is a photograph of us seated on a bench by the sea. I have my head in my hands
and you are looking up at the camera, beaming with amusement. In another photo
we are waiting for the 51B bus to Clondalkin, seated on the pavement beside the Liffey.
My forehead is planted against my knee and you are kissing my hair.
You tried to get me to take Tai Chi with you, but it was too peaceful. I needed to kick
something with all my strength, to feel that I was beating my organs’ proxy.
Fourteen years later I perform the movements. I am clumsy, but watching the teacher
is traveling back in time to every park we ever went to together. Me reading a book
on the grass, you flowing through the postures. Being young is being not ready.
Is wanting in theory but shrinking from the flesh of it.
FIRSTS
My father wanted me to be a child model, to win trophies like my cousin
for being the most beautiful. My mother put a stop to that idea.
No rouge for these fat cheeks. No blowouts for these baby curls. No grown
humans living their fantasies through the buck and canter of these little limbs.
Her resistance did not save me, however, and after the divorce I found myself
on an uncle’s countertop in a kitchen that smelled of beer and gasoline.
Mostly I remember the swimming pool full of trash, the padlock
on the refrigerator, and the shimmery pieces of paper stuck to the walls.
I looked at everything other than my assailant, my first experience
of dissociation. And when he was finished, I spat on the floor,
my first attempt at expelling an intruder from my mouth. He told my aunt
and I got in trouble for spitting, the first time I was blamed
for fighting back. The first time I remember thinking, at four years old,
that I will be punished for the things that happen to my body.
My mother tells me the story of how I stepped in a bucket of red paint
in that same house, ran through all the rooms leaving my little red
footprints on all the carpets. How everyone--all my cousins, my mother--
spent hours scrubbing the evidence out for fear that my aunt
would murder me. I remember a knife, my sister running down the stairs
away from someone. I remember us leaving. The same man who had
touched me tried to touch my mother. She took my sister and me
to an apartment in the suburbs, on the dirty side of the railroad tracks.
It is there that I first remember dancing.
for being the most beautiful. My mother put a stop to that idea.
No rouge for these fat cheeks. No blowouts for these baby curls. No grown
humans living their fantasies through the buck and canter of these little limbs.
Her resistance did not save me, however, and after the divorce I found myself
on an uncle’s countertop in a kitchen that smelled of beer and gasoline.
Mostly I remember the swimming pool full of trash, the padlock
on the refrigerator, and the shimmery pieces of paper stuck to the walls.
I looked at everything other than my assailant, my first experience
of dissociation. And when he was finished, I spat on the floor,
my first attempt at expelling an intruder from my mouth. He told my aunt
and I got in trouble for spitting, the first time I was blamed
for fighting back. The first time I remember thinking, at four years old,
that I will be punished for the things that happen to my body.
My mother tells me the story of how I stepped in a bucket of red paint
in that same house, ran through all the rooms leaving my little red
footprints on all the carpets. How everyone--all my cousins, my mother--
spent hours scrubbing the evidence out for fear that my aunt
would murder me. I remember a knife, my sister running down the stairs
away from someone. I remember us leaving. The same man who had
touched me tried to touch my mother. She took my sister and me
to an apartment in the suburbs, on the dirty side of the railroad tracks.
It is there that I first remember dancing.
ALINA STEFANESCU : TWO FLASH / ONE COLLAGE
- "Passion is the way in which a mammalian limb answers a dogwood blossom.
- Passion is the backyard tire fire of pew-like poises.
- Passion is a discount disco between mammal and moon.
- Passion is a poison sweeter sipped than shot.
- Passion is easy to ogle on an ikon, easy to mistake for reverence."
Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania and lives in Alabama with her partner and four small mammals. Her first fiction collection, "Every Mask I Tried On," won the 2016 Brighthorse Books Prize. She can't wait for you to read it.
"American Dream Collage"
These Are Scenes From A PAnel
The panel is about scientific certainty. Panelists introduce themselves before pledging a personal interest in a way of knowing which renders us known.
An official intervenes. He wants to make sure the audience understands what the panel is not. For instance, the panel is not about racism, intolerance, homophobia, or violence. The restriction on subject matter does not prevent the panel from being inclusive and open-minded.
The official wants to encourage panelists to consider the unofficial. In a sense, the panel is about not wanting to wonder or leave doors slightly cracked. It is about owning a gun to stave off the crack, or taking piano lessons to overcome the silence. It is about firecrackers and war and how fun and sickness sound the same. Inches apart.
After she swallows the fizzy clear liquid, her lips grow moist. The audience member feels ready to ask a question. She can raise a hand half-mast and lean forward slightly to indicate interest. She can observe the official's eyebrows angle as he add her to a mental waitlist.
Technically, arms extend into punctuation which resembles an exclamation point. But she will go further. She will keep her arm crooked, a slight curve, an unimpeachable question mark. A face at the bottom of an arm being a dot.
One panelist expresses astonishment, a muddled happiness, over the moment of life currently playing out in this panel discussion. The panelist's face is a fireball of joy, sudden satisfaction.
But the audience member with a crooked arm does not want to know about Now or Happy Homo sapiens sapiens. She has watched atoms collide in a particle accelerator. She has pictured the dissolution of matter. What she wants is to ask the question.
Otherwise, to see the screen in the room where professors discourse on unlearning how to see what feels like a screen but remains nonspecific. How to devise a pedagogy which repudiates the need for pedagogies. How to talk about prisons without race or color.
There is no panelist willing to specify.
We could go for a walk but then the trees would be a screen through we saw ourselves. A walk could be a stroll but then how would we agree on a century? Chalk silhouettes on a sidewalk we have learned to avoid because the essence of a crack is vindictive. I am inspired by the academic ventriloquation of what I suspected before the screen interrupted the space behind the wall I saw.
As for the girl, the panel runs out of time. She walks home with her question.
An official intervenes. He wants to make sure the audience understands what the panel is not. For instance, the panel is not about racism, intolerance, homophobia, or violence. The restriction on subject matter does not prevent the panel from being inclusive and open-minded.
The official wants to encourage panelists to consider the unofficial. In a sense, the panel is about not wanting to wonder or leave doors slightly cracked. It is about owning a gun to stave off the crack, or taking piano lessons to overcome the silence. It is about firecrackers and war and how fun and sickness sound the same. Inches apart.
After she swallows the fizzy clear liquid, her lips grow moist. The audience member feels ready to ask a question. She can raise a hand half-mast and lean forward slightly to indicate interest. She can observe the official's eyebrows angle as he add her to a mental waitlist.
Technically, arms extend into punctuation which resembles an exclamation point. But she will go further. She will keep her arm crooked, a slight curve, an unimpeachable question mark. A face at the bottom of an arm being a dot.
One panelist expresses astonishment, a muddled happiness, over the moment of life currently playing out in this panel discussion. The panelist's face is a fireball of joy, sudden satisfaction.
But the audience member with a crooked arm does not want to know about Now or Happy Homo sapiens sapiens. She has watched atoms collide in a particle accelerator. She has pictured the dissolution of matter. What she wants is to ask the question.
Otherwise, to see the screen in the room where professors discourse on unlearning how to see what feels like a screen but remains nonspecific. How to devise a pedagogy which repudiates the need for pedagogies. How to talk about prisons without race or color.
There is no panelist willing to specify.
We could go for a walk but then the trees would be a screen through we saw ourselves. A walk could be a stroll but then how would we agree on a century? Chalk silhouettes on a sidewalk we have learned to avoid because the essence of a crack is vindictive. I am inspired by the academic ventriloquation of what I suspected before the screen interrupted the space behind the wall I saw.
As for the girl, the panel runs out of time. She walks home with her question.
Anger Hole No one Sees Coming
I dug a hole behind the green metal tool shed owned by the paraplegic neighbor who lacked unassisted access to the perimeter of his building. He would need a ramp to get to the unramped place.
Soil sprung from my shovel like Sunday school smiles, dirty looks piled up.
What happened was not the neighbor’s fault but he inched across the yard in a wheelchair anyway.
My anger was private and fine-grained, porous as heirloom sieve, scaldersome as a cough drop one sucks without stopping if dragon nostrils evolved in responses to mentho-eucalyptus combinations. Never wonder how much fury is nasal.
On November 2nd, I watched a cat maul a wren with its paws. The pain was difficult to discern in bird features and the cat's graceful back and forth batting resembled play.
On November 4, the rain transformed the hole into a pond which needed drying. The wind roared like a sad, self-pitying dad but the accusations were non-specific. The accusations blew past the garage in a unpatriarchal manner. There are men who cringe when they hear certain words. Patriarch. Pedophile. Prison. I firmed the banks with a shovel and read articles about hockey.
On November 10, I uncovered the fine china skeleton of the wren, her bones perfect stitches of white. I put her in my pocket. What to do with her. What to make of things later.
On November 13, people came over with casseroles. I sent Dave to the gas station for candles. This was when I realized I didn't have any friends close enough to tell about the hole. A part of me stayed buried. But the bone in my head kept crying deeper.
Soil sprung from my shovel like Sunday school smiles, dirty looks piled up.
What happened was not the neighbor’s fault but he inched across the yard in a wheelchair anyway.
My anger was private and fine-grained, porous as heirloom sieve, scaldersome as a cough drop one sucks without stopping if dragon nostrils evolved in responses to mentho-eucalyptus combinations. Never wonder how much fury is nasal.
On November 2nd, I watched a cat maul a wren with its paws. The pain was difficult to discern in bird features and the cat's graceful back and forth batting resembled play.
On November 4, the rain transformed the hole into a pond which needed drying. The wind roared like a sad, self-pitying dad but the accusations were non-specific. The accusations blew past the garage in a unpatriarchal manner. There are men who cringe when they hear certain words. Patriarch. Pedophile. Prison. I firmed the banks with a shovel and read articles about hockey.
On November 10, I uncovered the fine china skeleton of the wren, her bones perfect stitches of white. I put her in my pocket. What to do with her. What to make of things later.
On November 13, people came over with casseroles. I sent Dave to the gas station for candles. This was when I realized I didn't have any friends close enough to tell about the hole. A part of me stayed buried. But the bone in my head kept crying deeper.
TIM KAHL : Two Poems
"Passion is coming to meet the world in all its absurdity even after all the nonsense deters, hinders, and makes itself known to you. It’s being a man and giving milk even though previously there have been so many hard squeezes and nothing comes out. It's being a wide bright sail on a windless day and still feeling a compulsion to unfurl."
Tim Kahl is the author of "Possessing Yourself" (CW Books, 2009), "The Century of Travel" (CW Books, 2012) and "The String of Islands" (Dink, 2015). His work has been published in Prairie Schooner, Drunken Boat, Mad Hatters' Review, Indiana Review, Metazen, Ninth Letter, Sein und Werden, Notre Dame Review, The Really System, Konundrum Engine Literary Magazine, The Journal, The Volta, Parthenon West Review, Caliban and many other journals in the U.S. He is also editor of Clade Song. He is the vice president and events coordinator of The Sacramento Poetry Center. He also has a public installation in Sacramento {In Scarcity We Bare The Teeth}. He plays flutes, guitars, ukuleles, charangos and cavaquinhos. He currently teaches at California State University, Sacramento, where he sings lieder while walking on campus between classes.
Therapy Horse
Her braided mane adorned with bows is a sign from a man-made heaven that today's savior is equipped with rubber booties on its hooves — the minimare cometh. It has learned to master the harness and not fear the elevator. It travels by trailer across the tracks where the oil trains pass on their way to the refineries, where the inspection protocols quicken with layers of detail. Everyone understands they're a client, a risk-taker, a potential piece of equipment designed for catastrophic failure. And this is where the therapy horse will register its claim, entering through sliding doors onto the hospital floor, stoking itself for the camera-ready pose. It is beyond horoscope, beyond magic, beyond fruitful future wish. It settles heart rates into rhyming with a winning strategy to take the hills. The race resumes in its temperate stage. The skies are therapeutic, the clouds electric, sympathetic. Congratulations arise above the horizon to the east.
The Tender Meat
The tongue’s veins display their tender meat. The tongue thickens with bruises from experiencing the scriptures. The top of the head is no man’s land; its vibration stays quiet. Its tranquil buzzing also exists in the tunnels that use light to keep out the deep. But as we slept through the white mother’s guilt and the flowers denying the footprints of the invaders, grief touched us and we feared the ash. The Monongahela wandered into evil, and we could not bring it back. One of its ghosts was burned, a gray figure who smelled of smoke. The ghost took on weight and made its white disappear. It disappeared into the walls and the carpet and was drawn to the edges of breath. There the tiny scars marked the air between man and woman and added pain to all the separate bodies. We hunted in those bodies, hunted after them as though they were dogs without collars. We called after them, clicking our tongues, exposing the tender meat of the veins again and again. It was simple, but the simplicity was killing us. The fine mist was easy to understand. It kept us happy, but there is a problem with bliss.
DANI SCHMIDT : TWO PAINTINGS
"Passion is finding dried paint on my body in the shower. Passion is a fire in my heart; a slow burn of longing. Passion is living."
Dani Schmidt is a painter from Contoocook, New Hampshire. Her paintings are raw, fresh, and vibrant. Color is what inspires her to paint a particular subject. The most interesting colors can be found in nature, which translates to her work. Portraits and figure paintings are also a part of her portfolio. Capturing the subject’s unique qualities while distorting reality, is what gives her portraits an edgy feel. Dig her Instagram @myrandomcat
"12/6/16"
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"12/3/16"
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ELLYN LICHVAR : TWO POEMS
Ellyn Lichvar is the managing editor for The Louisville Review and works on the staff of Spalding University's low-residency MFA in Writing program. Her poems have appeared in DIAGRAM, BOAAT, The Journal, Meridian, Whiskey Island, The Boiler, and others.
Learning Anatomy
It was about fourth grade. Teacher said
if a body lay in the lobby of the school
and another body stood on the roof,
the hands on the roof could hold
the intestines of the body below.
That’s how long they were. How long
I remembered that, the picture of
roof-body, hand over hand, culling
thick viscera up through the floors,
heavy slack coiling behind
on the graveled roof, over and over,
slippery constant motion, below-body
eventually pulled taught against one
of the ceilings, limbs and head bobbing
the arc of the dangling body. And what
we learned from this—the mileage
wrapped up inside us, all the major organs
nestled in their cramped homes and then
the one-half of us remembering our bodies
could one day yield other bodies.
Roof-body and below-body were sexless
in my memory, just cavities and organ
rope. They were pink though, inside
and out, and, the way we were taught,
it was hard to imagine it another way.
if a body lay in the lobby of the school
and another body stood on the roof,
the hands on the roof could hold
the intestines of the body below.
That’s how long they were. How long
I remembered that, the picture of
roof-body, hand over hand, culling
thick viscera up through the floors,
heavy slack coiling behind
on the graveled roof, over and over,
slippery constant motion, below-body
eventually pulled taught against one
of the ceilings, limbs and head bobbing
the arc of the dangling body. And what
we learned from this—the mileage
wrapped up inside us, all the major organs
nestled in their cramped homes and then
the one-half of us remembering our bodies
could one day yield other bodies.
Roof-body and below-body were sexless
in my memory, just cavities and organ
rope. They were pink though, inside
and out, and, the way we were taught,
it was hard to imagine it another way.
On Seeking Asylum
Put your finger on the glass and trace
a circle for someone who doesn’t know
what a shape is. Close your eyes, remember
breath, what it means to breathe, a first
terrified inhale of atmosphere, mother-
and blood-filled. Universal, we think.
We all began somewhere, learned to walk
and then walked. On the other side of the glass
is a mist you can’t quite see and can’t quite
see through. Your finger is a key and
your circle is a lock. Recollection, paths
of scent that led you here, these attempted
modes of communication. Drawing,
wanting to be drawn. Arms in shadow
on the other side holding halfway, opening
or closing. Then something breaks the circle
and glass shards all around: pick them up
and hold a weapon; tread past and turn to sand.
a circle for someone who doesn’t know
what a shape is. Close your eyes, remember
breath, what it means to breathe, a first
terrified inhale of atmosphere, mother-
and blood-filled. Universal, we think.
We all began somewhere, learned to walk
and then walked. On the other side of the glass
is a mist you can’t quite see and can’t quite
see through. Your finger is a key and
your circle is a lock. Recollection, paths
of scent that led you here, these attempted
modes of communication. Drawing,
wanting to be drawn. Arms in shadow
on the other side holding halfway, opening
or closing. Then something breaks the circle
and glass shards all around: pick them up
and hold a weapon; tread past and turn to sand.
ONE POEM : C.T. McGaha
"Have you ever seen a cat chase a bird through a clean glass sliding door, right before it reconciles that it will never catch the bird, when its eyes are wide and teeth are bared and it's in pounce position? Have you seen that?"
C.T. McGaha is a writer from charlotte, nc. he's the founder and co-editor of VANILLA SEX MAGAZINE. his work has been featured in Hobart, Juked, 90s Meg Ryan and other literary journals. he's also the author of the chapbook, "GUTTERBOY RIDES AGAIN" (Ursus Americanus Press, 2017).
Behind The Pine Curtain
i finally dug up my heart from
the hardened tyler clay ran it under
water from lake of the pines dried it
with paper towels from waffle house bathrooms
ripped open my ribcage with pliers
from the stable you raised me in
i laid down in the pasture little ants
crawling all over me massing on my chest
lapping at my blood i shoved that dirty heart
back in i slept for twenty years there eyes
open never resting a black horse found me
picked me up by my shoulders slung me over
rode me out past the gates with your name
emblazoned on them in foot high letters
carried me back to the pacific dropped
my body in the waves prayed
you’d never find me on the ocean floor
i’m getting lazy i see sunlight refracted
and that’s enough
the hardened tyler clay ran it under
water from lake of the pines dried it
with paper towels from waffle house bathrooms
ripped open my ribcage with pliers
from the stable you raised me in
i laid down in the pasture little ants
crawling all over me massing on my chest
lapping at my blood i shoved that dirty heart
back in i slept for twenty years there eyes
open never resting a black horse found me
picked me up by my shoulders slung me over
rode me out past the gates with your name
emblazoned on them in foot high letters
carried me back to the pacific dropped
my body in the waves prayed
you’d never find me on the ocean floor
i’m getting lazy i see sunlight refracted
and that’s enough
MAllory Smart : ONE POEM
"passion : what keeps you up late at night and wakes you up in the morning"
mallory smart (@malsmart) is a Chicago-based writer and the Editor-in-Chief of Maudlin House. She is the author of “I’m AntiSocial, Coffee Never Lies” and “HIPSTER IDIOT”. Her first full length poetry collection, "I Want To Feel Happy But I Only Feel__." is coming out soon.
Hope Things Work Out, Tweet Something Vague If TheY Don't
life can come at you fast
if you’re strong enough
smart enough
and willing to just fucking hurt people
enough
maybe it was march
maybe i listened to the airborne toxic event
maybe on the hood of the car that night
maybe i even thought of your face
sometimes i do think of your face and your beard and how it might feel
and then I remember that it is not mine
to feel
another face belongs to me
and i know that that’s not fair
i thought it would kill me
it didnt
if you’re strong enough
smart enough
and willing to just fucking hurt people
enough
maybe it was march
maybe i listened to the airborne toxic event
maybe on the hood of the car that night
maybe i even thought of your face
sometimes i do think of your face and your beard and how it might feel
and then I remember that it is not mine
to feel
another face belongs to me
and i know that that’s not fair
i thought it would kill me
it didnt
Christine Stoddard : Five Photographs
"Passion is that moment when Hunger, Lust, and Thirst hum in unison."
Christine Stoddard is a Salvadoran-Scottish-American writer and artist who lives in Brooklyn. Her visuals have appeared in the New York Transit Museum, the Ground Zero Hurricane Katrina Museum, the Poe Museum, and beyond. In 2014, Folio Magazine named her a media visionary for founding Quail Bell Magazine.
"Altar & Mermaid (10)"
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"Altar & Mermaid (28-2)"
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"Birthing on an Altar (29)"
"Urban Mermaid (13)"
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"Urban Mermaid (1)"
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NATE MAXSON : TWO POEMS
"My definition of passion is a moment of release, of escape, when I'm on stage performing my poems I feel like I'm floating in the air. When I'm running through the woods and finally can't hear the highway. Passion is an acceptance of fever and simultaneously the drive to burn in it."
Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry, he lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico
CROW'S NEST
They fill you up with voices here
Like a blood transfusion
The ghost-chain experiment
Bridges that burn forever
Suspended like constellations
Like a blood transfusion
The ghost-chain experiment
Bridges that burn forever
Suspended like constellations
PROOF
Astronomers say there might be a black hole in the center of every galaxy
Which I find curious because I thought entropy meant you couldn’t disappear
As if an invisible, suckling darkness
Were anything but proof of heaven
Which I find curious because I thought entropy meant you couldn’t disappear
As if an invisible, suckling darkness
Were anything but proof of heaven
ASHLEY MIRANDA : THREE POEMS
"Passion is over-stimulation. You can't touch it, it's too sensitive. It's ringing in your ears. It's visual word salad. Step away. Take your time with passion."
Ashley Miranda is a latinx poet from Chicago. Her work will be or has been previously featured by the Denver Quarterly, CCM Press, Ghost City Review, Lockjaw Magazine, and Glass Poetry Press. She tweets impulsive poetry and other musings @dustwhispers. You can find out more about her at agirlaloof.com
FLAKEY LAYERS
in one sphere, you are wearing a bow in your hair
the sun is out
in one sphere, you are bleeding from your gums
there is a drought
in one sphere, all these people are crowded in a white tiled room made for you
the sky smells of purple
in one sphere, a girl carves out her body
the sun is a smear
in one sphere, you crawl against the cold dirt
winter is made of ashes and sharp screws
in one sphere, you learn to smile
a light blocks out your eye
in one sphere, no one touches
this is the brightest pat
the sun is out
in one sphere, you are bleeding from your gums
there is a drought
in one sphere, all these people are crowded in a white tiled room made for you
the sky smells of purple
in one sphere, a girl carves out her body
the sun is a smear
in one sphere, you crawl against the cold dirt
winter is made of ashes and sharp screws
in one sphere, you learn to smile
a light blocks out your eye
in one sphere, no one touches
this is the brightest pat
MOLT
take off all the scars made from the whispers of your fathers. peel off the coat of varnish spit on you by your mothers. instead, carry refined sand. heat it up with your breath and let it become the glass you mean to carry your heart in. bury it under years of symptoms. reinforce it with whimsy. sometimes, it takes more layers on, than off, to find a hovel, warmth for your heart to blossom. sometimes it takes a little more than just closing your eyes and letting the sun drip off your body. baby it because you don’t want to baby anything. no baby no body, just a heart that you can resurrect.
COSMONAUT GHOST GIRL
i’m not ethereal, you're mistaking me with an ophelia or juliet, or some other pale tragedy
i’m a ghost of lunar phrases, born right from the cenote that leads to tar and soot
spit me out into the cosmos, let me be like laika except send me past the shores of jupiter
if space girls find my golden ratio, i hope they handle it with more warmth than earth men
ever did
maybe in space, i could be the horoscope that sings you to sleep
maybe in space, my constellations will be routed
maybe in space, i won’t wish to be shades of similarity or obscurity
i’m a ghost of lunar phrases, born right from the cenote that leads to tar and soot
spit me out into the cosmos, let me be like laika except send me past the shores of jupiter
if space girls find my golden ratio, i hope they handle it with more warmth than earth men
ever did
maybe in space, i could be the horoscope that sings you to sleep
maybe in space, my constellations will be routed
maybe in space, i won’t wish to be shades of similarity or obscurity
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